


Darkness Waited, Darkness Won

by Nighthaunting



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Abduction, Anal Sex, But also, Corruption, Cosmic Psychological Horror, Darkfic, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Evil Tree as Implement of Torture, Faustian Bargain, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, Lore References, M/M, Malfurion Makes Bad Choices to Prevent Worse Things, Metaphysical Sex, Mythology References, Psychological Horror, RIP Malfurion's Beard, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Emerald Dream, The Emerald Nightmare, Warcraft Kink Meme, Xavius is Bad and Creepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighthaunting/pseuds/Nighthaunting
Summary: "Deep within the tangled thicket, the Nightmare Lord Xavius works to break the will of his greatest prize." 
 For a prompt on the Warcraft Kink Meme.





	1. Gaze Long Into the Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> As a note I am ignoring Xavius' gremlin-form in the Emerald Nightmare raid. This is 100% sexy Xavius. 
> 
> For the prompt:  
>  _"Deep within the tangled thicket, the Nightmare Lord Xavius works to break the will of his greatest prize."_  
>  "...focusing his dark might to break the spirit of his old rival, Malfurion."  
> "He put up quite a fight, but your archdruid belongs to me now."

The last thing Malfurion sees before he realizes the extent of his mistake is Xavius’ face; pale and grinning from the shadows. The vines that twist themselves around his ankles and wrists and torso are Nightmare-touched, and even a last frantic attempt to coax them into untangling and freeing him leaves Malfurion dizzy and blacking out. The Nightmare’s venom seeping from where the sharp thorns bite into his skin, trailing sluggishly with his blood. Malfurion hears Tyrande, distantly, and struggles again before darkness crashes over him like a wave. 

He sleeps, fitfully: dreaming through waking nightmares granted by Xavius of Tyrande searching for him; his own image being spun out of shadows to torment her; and last, Xavius’ voice, lilting from the shadows to describe the destruction of the Temple of Elune if Tyrande does not stop it. Malfurion knows Tyrande--has held her dear for age upon age--and he knows that just as he accepted that he must be parted from her to tend to his duties as Archdruid, Tyrande will never abandon her devotion to the Goddess. He loves her for it, as much as he feels the wash of fear that her choice leaves him with. Her promise to return for him is a distant whisper that is carried away when he awakens to Xavius standing before the place where he bound Malfurion’s unconscious form.

“Did you enjoy that little drama?” Xavius asks, cruel and curious in one; allowing Malfurion to see how he’d been abandoned to his fate. 

Malfurion struggles with the vines that hold him rather than replying, but stops as the thorns bite more deeply; piercing through the leather of his boots and scoring across his shoulders and forearms. Xavius tuts mockingly, reaching out to trail the tip a claw along one of Malfurion’s gently bleeding wounds.

“My dear Malfurion, my brave defender of the Dream,” Xavius purrs, tongue flicking out to taste Malfurion’s blood, “whatever shall I do with you?” 

Malfurion clenches his hands into fists, feels the surge of fear and anger awaken the spirit of the bear within him, and chokes on a growl as the vines’ poison begins its work on him. He gasps for breath as feverish heat prickles under his skin, and sags in his bonds--driving the thorns deeper into his flesh, and dosing him again with poison--seeing his veins standing out stark and black beneath his skin. Malfurion manages to lift his head to look Xavius in the eye as the Nightmare Lord crouches before him, reaching out again to caress one of the vines lashed across Malfurion’s chest; coaxing the vine into further deranged growth.

Xavius laughs, drawing his hand away and watching as Malfurion shakes and wheezes out pained breaths as the thorns grow more deeply into his wounds. When he sees Malfurion’s eyes start to unfocus he knows the venom has done its work, and cups Malfurion’s chin in one deceptively gentle hand. 

“Malfurion Stormrage,” Xavius says, suddenly solemn and cold as he leans forward, watching Malfurion’s eyes flicker and try to focus at the sound of his name, “you defy me now, but soon,” Xavius whispers as he leans forward and presses a kiss to Malfurion’s mouth, biting at his lips until he draws blood, “soon you will be mine.” 

When Malfurion awakens again he is incoherent; sweating and shaking as the poison works its way through his system. He opens his eyes and sees only red-tinted darkness, his blurry vision struggling to make out the details of the tree roots he can feel himself leaning against. He shifts, easing away from a point of pain where a wound on his shoulder presses into the rough bark, and finds he can move freely, albeit sluggishly. Possessed of a sense of urgency he cannot name, Malfurion attempts to lever himself to his feet, but is stopped by cool hands pressing him back into the nest of tree roots he was cradled in. He tries to struggle, but a dark shape looms in his vision and he startles backwards suddenly; landing on one of his injured forearms hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

There is a voice speaking gently to him, but Malfurion cannot understand the words being spoken. He listens to the cadence of the words and the softness of the tone and settles, the pain and struggle having exhausted him. A cloth damp with cool water is laid across his brow, and Malfurion realizes all at once the pangs of hunger and thirst that ache in the pit of his stomach. 

He tries to speak, but he cannot find his voice; mouth forming shapes and air rasping in his throat. Malfurion licks his lips and finds them bruised and split, but cannot remember any reason they would be. The sudden realization that he cannot remember where he is at all motivates him for a few moments into further struggle, shifting the cloth from his forehead and trying to swat away the cool hands that reached out to soothe his distress. 

Malfurion’s renewed struggles exhaust him even further, and when the hands return to press him onto the bed of tree roots and soft moss he awoke on he quietly allows it. The cloth is found and returned to his forehead, and a cup is pressed to his lips. Malfurion expects water, but instead tepid and bitter tea flows into his mouth; stopping before he chokes on the unexpected taste, but insistently returning as soon as he’s swallowed. 

His eyelids grow heavy; the aftertaste left by the tea strong in his mouth, but distantly Malfurion can feel the cool hands undoing the clasps that hold the feathered bracers to his arms. Once his bracers and gloves have been stripped away, the hands move to his belt; loosening the smaller bands that hold pouches before undoing the heavy buckles of the main cinch and sliding it out from under Malfurion. The thick furs of Malfurion’s kilt held in place by his belt are shifted aside, pelt unraveling from its usual arrangement around his waist to spread out beneath him as the tension around his calves and ankles from the bindings and leather of his boots begins to ease until they slip easily from his feet. One cool hand grasps one of Malfurion’s feet, a clawed thumb tracing idly over the sole before massaging into a pressure point and making Malfurion gasp, before shifting to span his ankle almost speculatively. The hand lets go, and both hands begin working at the ties to the light leather trousers he wears beneath his kilt; gently but insistently prompting Malfurion to shift his hips so they can be drawn down his thighs and off of him. 

Hazily, Malfurion realizes he’s been stripped bare, but the thought cannot break through the fog that clouds his mind. There is a sense that comes to him that he is being  _ admired _ somehow, but when he tries to grasp the tendril of awareness it slips away from him. The damp cloth is removed from Malfurion’s brow, and instead is pressed carefully to his face and lips before being drawn away. The anonymous hands card his hair away from his face, and then gather his beard into one thick lock of hair before the sudden noise of shears closing and loss of weight registers. Malfurion attempts to make some noise of protest at being shorn, but only manages to sigh breathily; the wash of  _ amusement _ that follows is distinctly foreign, and for a few moments Malfurion floats towards the surface of his mind before a dark tide swallows him under once again. 

The cloth returns, now dripping with water and scrubbing at Malfurion’s much shorter beard. A sharp scent follows, and stinging soap is lathered across his cheeks and jaw and down his neck. Malfurion tries to turn his face away, but a hand twists itself into his hair and cradles the base of his neck to lift his head as a straight razor lays itself against his throat. The touch of the blade causes Malfurion to still suddenly, and he remains still as the last of his beard is shaved and the damp cloth returns to scrub the last of the soap from his bare face. 

A heavy weight settles around Malfurion’s neck, and he opens his eyes to see Xavius leaning over him. The sudden clarity of mind shocks Malfurion for a moment, before the haze stopping his memories dissipates and he recalls exactly the position he is in and how he came to be in it. 

“You!” Malfurion sputters, trying to gather the strength to sit up and distance himself from Xavius and being stopped by Xavius’ clawed fingers threading themselves through the heavy collar fastened around Malfurion’s neck. 

“Yes,” Xavius says idly, dragging Malfurion closer by the collar and admiring his handiwork; forcing Malfurion to bare his throat before leaning forward to nip gently along Malfurion’s jugular, “You have such a lovely throat, it’s a shame to hide it.” 

The sensations of Malfurion’s sudden outrage and humiliation are deliciously palpable to Xavius, and the overwhelming feeling of them are enough to distract Malfurion when Xavius summons a Nightmare vine thick with thorns. Malfurion tries to resist when Xavius threads it through the collar’s heavy ring, but Xavius’ strength far outstrips his own. 

Standing back, Xavius admires the sight of Malfurion collared and bound and naked among the roots of the great Nightmare Tree; the druid’s clean-shaven face making him seem younger even as he scowls and curses Xavius and tries to channel magicks to coax the vine into unwinding itself. 

“I must leave you for now, dearest, but I leave you in the best of company,” Xavius says, sketching a theatrical approximation of a graceful bow from the most refined days of Azshara’s court. 

As he steps sideways into gathering shadow, he hears Malfurion shouting after him: “XAVIUS!”

Malfurion collapses into exhaustion as soon as Xavius has disappeared. Every ounce of energy he’d recovered when Xavius  _ ministered _ to him being spent as he lost control of his temper. When he thinks to look for the fur pelt that he wore as a kilt--vaguely recalling it had been allowed to lay beneath him--he finds it gone, stolen away by the shadows that swathe the land around him in unending, blood-tinted darkness. 

He doesn’t understand why Xavius bothered to shave him rather than simply torture him, and the nagging thought that this is merely the prelude to some greater and more devilish torment than any Xavius has visited upon him before is one Malfurion is unable to shake. Reaching up to brush a hand tentatively along his smooth jaw, Malfurion shudders. It is neither cold nor warm in the Nightmare, but he feels chilled: violated, that he laid still and gentled under Xavius’ hands and did nothing as he was stripped and shorn. He doesn’t mourn the loss of his clothes so much as the loss of his assurance; the belief that he would be able to  _ recognize _ Xavius’ treacherous workings and resist them. 

Now he is alone, utterly, and Xavius has demonstrated that Malfurion is wholly vulnerable to his power. 

Malfurion shakes, suddenly, and curls in on himself among the tree roots that surround him. He presses both hands to his face and sobs, choking on his uneven breaths. Malfurion weeps until he passes back into unconsciousness. 

There is a whispering voice on the edge of Malfurion’s hearing. It speaks constantly, never stopping for breath or rest. Malfurion tries to ignore the constant susurration--like the rustling of leaves, almost--but the voice changes just enough that he is constantly noticing and straining to understand its words. 

For the first few days of his captivity Malfurion avoided it most easily by sleeping. Slipping into nightmares within nightmares that he would wake from shaking and crying out; a lucid dreaming that made sleep a greater torment than waking no matter how deeply Malfurion’s exhaustion sent him into slumber. But once his lingering wounds had healed--some strange influence of the Nightmare allowing the wounds to close when Malfurion attempted to channel rejuvenating magicks, but leaving behind scars the same color as the poison that had seeped into them--Malfurion’s exhaustion had mostly faded.

He takes time to explore the collar Xavius has bound him with. Running his hands over it and shuddering at the strange novelty of his bare throat and shaved face. There is no means for him to see himself, but twists the collar so he can feel every part of it; carefully tracing his fingers over the delicate filigreed carvings and ornate settings of heavy stones. When he pulls the collar away from his neck and cranes his head as far as he can, he can barely see a blur of gleaming obsidian and polished garnets set into the thick jet leather. The collar has no clasp and no locking mechanism that Malfurion can feel, as though Xavius simply crafted it out of the Nightmare and around Malfurion’s neck; and perhaps he had, the heavy black ring that Xavius had wound Nightmare vines through to bind Malfurion being offset by a massive red stone that sat directly in the hollow of Malfurion’s throat when the collar was turned around.

The thought that Xavius planned to keep him alive long enough to make the collar decorative was a cold comfort. Malfurion’s efforts to unwind the vines leashing him to his prison among the roots of the massive tree that rose above him had failed so far: coaxing them to unwind with druidic magicks was stubbornly refused; picking them apart with his nails left him burning with poison and dark scars on his fingers from the dense thorns; and finding the origin of the vine was impossible, shifting away each time Malfurion thought he was close. 

For fear of attracting some manner of Xavius’ minions who might further his torment, Malfurion had ignored the feel of living and growing things he could sense nearby. The whispers had been unnerving enough, and finding their source seemed like a poor way to survive longer. But restlessness had claimed Malfurion; left to his own thoughts he could only ruminate on his past history with Xavius, and wonder what was in store for him now. 

If it had been several days and Xavius was ignoring his captive, then what could be holding his attention? Malfurion remembered his childhood lessons on the Arcane well enough to know that some particularly complex spells required some physical aspect of the person the spell was intended to act upon. Perhaps by shearing away his beard Xavius had merely been collecting the components he needed, and Malfurion had spent days shivering each time an errant hair brushed his jaw without realizing the truth like some vain fool. 

Or worse. If it had not been several days. If Malfurion had slept and woken into the deep twilight of the nightmare, had thought in circles and picked at the thorny vines until his fingers bled and suffered the poison, yet no time at all had passed. That time would not start again until Xavius returned with his spell or his torture. 

The idle thought that Illidan would be able to tell him at least some idea of what manner of spell Xavius might be working brought Malfurion to a new and more desperate low. Illidan was gone--lost or stolen or dead, his back turned long before--but the intensity of Malfurion’s sudden longing for his twin twisted in his gut all the same. It unnerved Malfurion, also, to think of how strongly he and Illidan resembled each other. They were twins, it was natural; but Malfurion traced his fingers over the sharp jawline and high, elegant cheekbones he’d hidden and wondered if perhaps it was Xavius’ plan to exact punishment for any grudge he had against Illidan as well. 

No matter if it truly had been days, or the twisted perception granted by the Nightmare had stretched a few hours into the same length of time, Malfurion’s restlessness soon got the better of him. Settled among the roots that formed the boundaries of his prison, Malfurion allowed himself to fall into meditation. The work of clearing his mind is painstaking; each thought and fear refusing to quiet easily. When his mind is silent, Malfurion carefully eases his mental shields, and reaches for the sense of  _ living-growing _ that emanates from the great tree that provides his prison. 

One of the first things Cenarius had ever taught Malfurion had been treespeaking; to listen with every sense and hear the language of growing things. Even if he cannot work any influence on the tree through the Nightmare’s corruption, then perhaps he can discover where in the Nightmare he is. 

On the edge of his awareness, Malfurion realizes the whispers are growing in intensity, but as deep as he is within his meditation it is a useless detail. He can feel the heart of the great tree; stronger than he’d assumed, even for something so obviously old. Malfurion’s mind brushes the edge of the tree’s awareness, and suddenly it seems to awaken. 

Awareness--alien and ancient--reaches for him, prying fingers under his mental shields and dismantling them in less than an instant. Malfurion’s body seizes as a great Eye--red and weeping--manifests itself in his thoughts. He tries, futilely, to escape his meditation but is pinned and dissected under the Eye’s gaze; in the distant and fading echo of the world beyond his body Malfurion can feel blood trailing from his nose and eyes. The whispers crescendo deafeningly, before speaking in one voice: 

_ AT LAST, MORTAL. WE. HAVE. WAITED. _

Malfurion screams with his entire being; body and mind echoing in one note of profound terror before the Eye’s great slitted pupil dilates wide, and Malfurion glimpses the burning spin of the cosmos arranging itself into endless and unfathomable visions in its depths. As the Great Dark Beyond stretches itself out from the Eye to reach for him, Malfurion stares transfixed; merely waiting, prey hypnotized under a predator’s gaze. 

Far distant, in the realm of the Nightmare where his body lies helpless, Xavius gently cradles Malfurion’s head in his lap and wipes the blood from his face as the druid sobs and twitches in his sleep of revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha im going to hell for this probably but w/e 
> 
> im in the darkfic place where the darkfic comes from, mining it up and bringing the finest darkfic to the ficmarket


	2. In Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'In Dreams' by Roy Orbison.

Malfurion awakens in the warm afternoon sunlight; lying on his back in a small clearing he'd discovered as an apprentice in Moonglade, one arm folded to pillow his head. It is early by the standards of his people, and most of his fellow Kaldorei won't be waking for several hours. He too feels the inclination to return to sleep and wake at a more reasonable hour, but there is some liminal quality about the afternoon sun that causes him to rise instead. Wandering down the almost unnoticeable trail leading to his clearing to reach the more well-traveled paths that lead through the glade.

For a moment, Malfurion almost believes he's somehow slipped into the Emerald Dream; the trees are so perfectly green, and the sun reflects so cleanly and dazzlingly on the water. In the distance, Malfurion sees Cenarius standing on an outcropping on the shore of the lake and starts toward him. 

“Is that you, Thero’shan?” Cenarius calls to him as Malfurion wades through the shallow stream that bounds the jut of shoreline Cenarius has chosen. Absently, Malfurion realizes that he’s barefoot and is suddenly aware that he’s not wearing any of his usual clothing; only a fine piece of red silk, knotted intricately around his hips and allowed to drape and fall around his thighs. A style that had been popular in the opulence of the great cities, but not very practi--Malfurion has a sudden moment of vertigo, derailing his train of thought. For a moment the sunlight is too bright, and his vision seems to swarm with strange dark shapes. The shadows under the trees fill up with a gloaming red haze that Malfurion recogni--

“Thero’shan,” Cenarius’ voice causes Malfurion to startle. The gentle breeze rolling off the lake catches the artfully arranged silk drape again, snapping the ends and causing the red to flicker on the edge of Malfurion’s vision. 

“Yes, Shan’do, I am here,” Malfurion says, dismissing his thoughts as tiredness. For a moment, when he thinks of being tired, he feels an ache radiate through his skull from his eyes; a passing second of deep migraine before he finds himself standing at Cenarius’ side. 

His teacher smiles down at him, and Malfurion smiles as well, nodding his respect before turning to look at the whirlpool Cenarius is creating in the waters of Lake Elune’ara. Wordlessly, Malfurion seeks out the whorls and eddies of the magick his teacher channels, feeling the direction and intent before adding his own power as well. 

Together, Cenarius and Malfurion spread the whirlpool into the depths of the lake; not to any aim Malfurion could divine, merely aiding his teacher in exulting in the working of nature’s power. When Malfurion senses the whirlpool has reached its greatest span, he begins to withdraw his power from its support, but Cenarius turns his head and says, “No, Thero’shan, we are not finished. Do not hold back your strength.”

Malfurion glances over at Cenarius for a moment, surprised at his teacher’s words, but suddenly he feels the wild thrumming along with his own heartbeat. Tentatively, Malfurion stretches out his arms to reach for the whirlpool with his powers again, grasping the flow of the water from its natural state and threading his will through it; spinning the edges of the whirlpool wider and driving down towards the lake bottom. As he slowly eases the tight control he usually maintains over his power, Malfurion’s vision blurs again; the sunlight reflecting off the water taking on a reddish tint for a moment. It is less than a moment, but his fine direction of the tides wavers, and in response he abruptly releases all of his restraint. 

The waters of the lake churn as the whirlpool expands exponentially, mist and spray rising from where the waves crash against the rocky outcropping Malfurion and Cenarius are standing on. For a moment Malfurion rides the sheer euphoria of not endlessly leashing his raw magical strength; of not holding himself to caution while Illidan soared without care and excelled without restraint; of not sometimes, when he felt the burdens of his place as Archdruid most keenly, wondering at what would have been if he had not chosen to ground himself with Cenarius’ teachings. The spray from the lake water is cold, and when it mists Malfurion’s face it smells and tastes vaguely coppery. It should not. Malfurion has drunk of the waters of this lake a thousand thousand times, and the water has never tasted anything other than pure and sweet.

Thinking more deeply about the strangeness brings Malfurion to the realization that he has been thoughtlessly driving the entire force of his more than formidable strength through the whirlpool. He is ashamed, suddenly, vindicated in his choice not to pursue the same path his twin had. 

Malfurion looks to Cenarius to see that his teacher is staring unfathomably into the thrashing waves, and slowly begins to rein in his powers. It is painstaking, Malfurion so rarely has reason to expend the full force of himself--fears it, somewhat, from times past when his loss of control had nearly led to the deaths of others--that rebuilding his control takes an effort of will. When the lake is becalmed, although still running with irregular tides that Malfurion will only worsen if he tries to correct them rather than allowing the natural order to reassert itself, Malfurion steps back from the lake shore with his hands shaking at his sides. 

“Do you still fear what you are at heart, Malfurion?” Cenarius asks quietly, not turning to look at his student, but instead continuing to gaze out over the lake. 

“Shan’do…” Malfurion begins, but Cenarius waves a hand and he is silent.

“You are here to grow, Malfurion,” Cenarius says, “You are here to  _ become _ . Hiding from your strength will do you no favors,” he crosses his arms, tilting his head speculatively and flicking his tail, “But this is more than enough for today. Run along, Thero’shan.”

Malfurion bows his head in respect to his teacher once more, before turning leaving Cenarius to his contemplation of the lake. In the clearings between the trees, the light is as thick and heavy as gold and suddenly all Malfurion wants is to be in the cool shade. He reaches a thick gathering of trees within sight of the lakeshore and sighs deeply, the few patches of dappled sunlight that reach him through the heavy boughs are like coins shivering in the breeze. For a moment, reality seems to shudder, Malfurion’s sense of wrongness returning: that he should be ill at ease with something that he cannot entirely place. 

A wisp of shadow darts past Malfurion and he turns, drawing in a sharp breath as he suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Xavius. The Satyr Lord’s presence darkening the already deep shadows beneath the trees. 

“Xavius,” Malfurion hisses, throwing himself into the satyr’s arms. 

“Hello, lover,” Xavius purrs against Malfurion’s mouth as he leans down to kiss him, winding an arm around Malfurion’s waist. 

“Xavius,” Malfurion gasps, breaking the kiss, “You shouldn’t be--,” he manages before Xavius kisses him again; slowly and deeply, opening Malfurion’s mouth as though he means to drink the soft sigh that escapes Malfurion when he gives in to the kiss. 

When Xavius finally draws back, it is only to admire Malfurion’s swollen mouth and heavy-lidded eyes. Xavius nips Malfurion’s bottom lip as he presses him against a tree trunk in the heaviest patch of shadow the small copse provides them. Malfurion’s hands finding their way to Xavius’ shoulders and the wild mess of his hair when Xavius lifts him bodily and presses one of his muscular thighs between Malfurion’s legs to pin him. 

For a moment, Malfurion glances back towards the lakeshore where Cenarius still stands, engrossed in his study of the water, but Xavius kisses him again, murmuring, “All that matters right now is us, dearest.”

The kiss is so deep it feels endless. Malfurion gasps into it, and tightens his arms around Xavius’ shoulders. The red silk around Malfurion’s hips getting caught between Xavius’ solid weight and his own hardening cock, contrasting with the rough brush of fur along Malfurion’s inner thighs as he rides Xavius’ own thigh between them. Malfurion shivers at the dual sensation, his hips rolling against Xavius’ and letting him feel the heavy weight of Xavius’ cock despite the thick leather of the belt and kilt Xavius wears. 

Xavius slides a hand under Malfurion’s thigh and lifts, pressing his weight more firmly between Malfurion’s legs until they open for him. The soft groan Malfurion lets out is breathless with its sweetness, and Xavius has to kiss him again to capture the taste. Malfurion’s hands releasing Xavius’ shoulders to tug at the leather of Xavius’ kilt until Xavius reaches down impatiently and shreds it with his claws so the leather falls away from his body; freeing his cock and letting Malfurion hook a thigh smoothly over Xavius’ hip, the red silk the only thing between them. 

“My color suits you,” Xavius growls against Malfurion’s mouth, sliding his hand around Malfurion’s cock and carefully running a claw from the base to the tip until Malfurion is keening and rolling his hips helplessly, “Sweet void, it suits you.”

Xavius’ cock slides along the tender skin at the very apex of Malfurion’s thighs and he thrusts forward ruthlessly, letting Malfurion shift and squirm; thighs working and flexing to keep his place in Xavius’ lap and tightening beautifully around Xavius’ cock, dragging the silk along with them. Xavius nips his way down Malfurion’s jawline, nuzzling the collar out of the way to lavish attention on Malfurion’s neck. 

The feel of Xavius’ teeth on his clean-shaven jaw and the collar on his neck shocks Malfurion. He lifts his head from where he’d pressed his face into Xavius’ shoulder, opening his eyes and blinking as the sunlight he could see beyond the trees suddenly wavered, becoming a brilliant red before shifting into darkness. Xavius rolls his hips forward and Malfurion clenches his thighs and moans as his cock is pressed tightly between their bodies, Xavius shifting his weight again to keep them flush together while still laving sucking, open-mouthed kisses to every part of Malfurion’s neck he could reach. 

The perfection of Moonglade is shattered. The roaring of water from the whirlpool still turning in Lake Elune’ara becomes deafening. Malfurion can see the Nightmare-corrupted form of Cenarius in the distance, tending to the whirlpool, and in the whirlpool's depths, a hellish red light glows like a captive star. Malfurion shudders, chill running down his spine for all that he’s still burning from Xavius’ touch.

“Xavius,” Malfurion gasps, clawing at the satyr’s shoulders and writhing in his embrace. 

Xavius draws back from his attentions to Malfurion’s neck to ensure the druid is still well-pinned against the tree, smirking down at him and savoring the expression on his face. He can’t resist pressing a kiss to Malfurion’s snarling mouth, laughing when Malfurion bites at his lips. 

“Malfurion,” Xavius says, mouth bloody and grinning, “I brought you a sweet dream, dearest.”

Malfurion shivers in Xavius’ embrace, furious and still achingly hard, “Let. Me. Go.”

Xavius sighs, “Not yet, hmm?”

“Not  _ yet _ ?” Malfurion shouts, voice breaking when Xavius rolls his hips again, working towards their mutual pleasure by grinding himself directly against Malfurion; both of their cocks slick and dragging in the silk still trapped between them. 

“No. Dearest,” Xavius grits out, setting a merciless pace until Malfurion involuntarily arches to meet him, “You won’t like what you find out there, dally with me a little longer.” 

Malfurion has to drop his head to Xavius’ shoulder again, his thighs tensing and hands clutching the same bloody welts he’d scratched into Xavius’ shoulders trying to escape him. Xavius scrapes his teeth along the bared curve of Malfurion’s throat and growls low in his chest, possessive and lusty. 

“What did you mean?” Malfurion thinks to ask, groaning into Xavius’ shoulder, “What did you mean ‘out there’?”

Whatever answer Xavius might have given him is lost in their mutual climax. Xavius bites at Malfurion’s throat and the hot shock of the pain is enough to undo him, both of them mindlessly rutting against each other as they come. The pleasure leaves Malfurion sagging in Xavius’ arms, spent and exhausted.

The afterglow fades swiftly as a bone-deep weariness settles over Malfurion, dragging insistently at his limbs and turning slowly to an all-encompassing ache that even their sex didn’t entirely explain. He tries to move, not simply supported by Xavius now but carried by him, and the spiking pain of migraine returns. Malfurion’s vision swims with dark shapes, his ears ringing with some distant sound even over the roaring of the lake. 

“Xavius?” Malfurion slurs as the world begins to fade in uneven patches, until the final thing he sees is Xavius’ face; wistful frown at war with his usual self-possession. 

Malfurion wakes.

He is alone, vines still binding his collar, in his prison among the roots of the great Nightmare Tree.

As soon as Malfurion’s thoughts clear of sleep, his memory of the great Eye returns; vision spreading out around him like tide flats. His mental shields are shredded and useless, and through them the Eye gazes. The whispers speak to him clearly of fate, and lies, and the will of beings greater than himself. 

Between one breath and the next, Malfurion’s memory of his tryst with Xavius unspools. The reprieve of his pleasure is burned through with starlight reflecting on vast forms unending. Absurdly, Malfurion finds himself reaching desperately for it; Xavius’ face and the warmth of his body a ward to protect him for a few scrabbling moments before the rolling tide of revelation drags him back into agony. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry malfurion i am so bad to you
> 
> also heck xavius accidentally a feeling


	3. The Eye

Malfurion drifts. He is neither sleeping nor awake. He can sense his body, distantly; laid out in the Nightmare, among the roots of the Nightmare Tree-- _ Il’gynoth, the whispers tell him _ \--insensate and, as far as he can tell, alone. The great Eye hangs like the full moon in Malfurion’s mind; even the tatters of his mental shields long since shredded to nothing. 

When it speaks to him he listens, and what it shows him he sees. Beyond this, Malfurion struggles to maintain a sense of himself distinct from the churning madness and corruption enfolding his mind like dark wings. 

What Malfurion has understood during each heartbeat moment of eternity is simple. It is everything. The Dream and the Nightmare spreading out above and below him: what they are; how they were created. 

What they restrain.

How foolish the druids have been to try and battle the Nightmare. How each blow Malfurion has struck against Xavius has only strengthened the Nightmare Lord. Each strand of the hanging rope; woven by Malfurion’s own hands, ready and waiting to twist into a noose. 

Or a collar. 

The irony of understanding is the cruellest lash imaginable. The worst torture Xavius has ever or will ever inflict upon Malfurion being to simply allow him to learn the truth. Some version of the truth. Malfurion tries to deny what he sees, when he can gather the will to do so. Malfurion tries to reason to himself, in the small corner that remains  _ himself _ , that he has seen how the Nightmare’s corruption deludes and deceives. 

Malfurion knows, as he knows the turn of the seasons and the slow pulse of the world’s heart, that is it the truth. 

The truth is what finally breaks him. The truth and the Eye; luminous and not all-seeing but all-revealing. 

_ OBLIVION OFFERS SOLACE, the whispers tell him. _

Malfurion has hung screaming from the tree of knowledge. He’s wandered unwitting in the dark for ten thousand years. He’d made a seed take root in Xavius’ body and poured power into its growth until it consumed Xavius’ flesh and wrapped around Xavius’ bones. He’d planted Xavius down into the earth like a tree and failed to consider the consequences. In the idle moments of reflection as Malfurion’s mind ebbs and flows through his skull, he considers that if he’d slit Xavius’ throat and been done with it this trouble might never have begun. In the idle moments of reflection as Malfurion’s mind settles down between his teeth and peers out, he considers that maybe Illidan was right when he claimed the only things the brothers Stormrage have ever shared between them are raw power; the love of Tyrande; and a flare for the dramatic.

Tyrande’s name echoing in the abyss melded into Malfurion’s mind makes him heartsick; insofar as he has a heart, currently, and the ability to comprehend the concept of sickness. Tyrande’s name echoing in the abyss melded into Malfurion’s mind is like a breeze through the branches of the tree Malfurion is hanging from; it makes him twist in the wind and winds the rope more tightly around his throat. 

There is no wind. He is not hanging, nor has he ever been hanged. Malfurion is dragged down into the darkness of the world heart and made to sit and watch and listen as Il’gynoth’s roots grow ever deeper. The sense of fear and urgency that takes him is the same as if he had been hanged. The knowledge that comes to him is not foreknowledge or prophesy; it is the truth, revealed. It is what will come to pass if it is allowed to come to pass. 

_ TAKE THE GIFT! the whispers chorus TAKE IT! _

Malfurion reaches blindly for what he is given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to say it gets worse before it gets better but honestly....


	4. All the Things I Want (I Really Shouldn't Get)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'Foundation' by Years&Years

The starlight reflecting on Lake Elune’ara is brilliant as diamonds. Each blazing point of light reflected in the mirror-like surface of the becalmed lake. Aside from the gentle lapping of the water on the shore and the breeze through the trees and wind chimes hung throughout Moonglade, there is only the sound of two heartbeats and quiet breath. 

They are lying together in a clearing among the trees; Xavius on his back with Malfurion sprawled half on top of him, tangled together to touch and bask in each other’s presence. They are both nude, Xavius having run claws through the red silk knotted around Malfurion’s hips the same as he shed his own leather kilt. The marks they’ve left on each other are clear, and Malfurion kisses each of the sluggishly bleeding rends he left on Xavius’ shoulders and sighs softly; drowsy and indolent in the afterglow of their lovemaking.     


Xavius idly strokes Malfurion’s hair--the tie that held it back from his face lost somewhere between Xavius pinning Malfurion against the tree and carrying him out of the shade as the stars rose--and asks, “Does my blood please you, dearest?” 

“No,” Malfurion replies, lifting his head to look at Xavius’ eyes; the blood on his lips and hair hanging loose and tangled with leaves making him look like a wild thing, “It is not your blood I want.”

“Tell me.” Xavius’ eyes darken with his demand.

“The Heart of Corruption,” Malfurion says, expectant. Pushing himself up on his forearms to look down at Xavius from a greater height, ignoring the way Xavius’ eyes trace over his throat and all the marks Xavius has left there; ignoring the collar’s jeweled weight. 

“You ask a great deal,” Xavius says slowly, running a hand down Malfurion’s spine to rest possessively on his lower back, “Why should I agree?” 

“I have seen--” Malfurion begins.

“I know what you’ve seen,” Xavius interrupts, “I’ve seen it too. Why should I agree?”

“If the seed takes hold, the roots of its infestation will wind their way into the heart of Azeroth,” Malfurion continues, “The Nightmare would devour our world, claiming everything…everyone…”

“Why should I agree?”

“This must not come to pass!”

They stare at each other a long moment, Xavius’ eyes narrowing as Malfurion snarls at him.

“If I wait,” Xavius says, “I will have everything I want regardless. How long, truly, do you think you can resist?”

“Will you truly have everything you want, Xavius?” Malfurion asks quietly, with terrible gentleness “We both know the truth: there can be no Nightmare without the Dream, and no Dream without the Nightmare. The years I’ve spent trying to halt the Nightmare’s advance have only strengthened it. When the Nightmare spreads beyond its bonds and devours the waking world what will be left for you? When I break, what will be left for you?” 

When Xavius hisses and looks away Malfurion knows he’s won; Xavius scowling at the lake--at the whirlpool portal to the Rift of Aln Malfurion knows is there, has always been there, the heart of the Nightmare hiding beneath and alongside the heart of the Dream--before relenting.

“The Heart of Corruption,” Xavius says, “A working of centuries, struck from creation. For what?” 

Malfurion leans down and kisses Xavius sweetly, bloody mouth and all, “You have tasted my blood, so I have tasted yours.” 

“And when your High Priestess comes to rescue you?” Xavius asks, suspicious, “Will you seek to escape our bargain?”

“I love her enough to want to spare her from what will come to pass,” Malfurion says, “And you would begin amassing the power needed to create the Heart again as soon as I left, wouldn’t you?”

Xavius nods, watching Malfurion with a look halfway between consideration and lust, shuddering when Malfurion leans forward to whisper in his ear, “Make me love you enough to want to stay.”

“Do you know what you’re suggesting?” Xavius asks, in the solemn tones of a man who’s realized he’s been outdone. 

“Yes,” Malfurion says, gesturing behind himself towards the lake, “The Nightmare and the Dream side-by-side, each incomplete without the other.”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” Xavius asks conversationally, “Since the first moment, before either of us were this, and every time I’ve seen you since I’ve burned with it.”

“Do you accept, Xavius?”

Xavius sighs out like he’s been struck, reaching up to brush tangles out of Malfurion’s face and tuck them behind his ears, trailing his fingers down to the collar and stopping short, “The Nightmare and the Dream,” Xavius says quietly, “Together. More power than either of us alone could have ever hoped to attain, offered to me by you, who shuns his own strength.” 

Malfurion kisses him again, “Then make me not afraid of power.”

Xavius twists his fingers into the collar until the spells unwind, and it breaks and wisps away from Malfurion’s neck. He rolls until Malfurion is under him, spread out in the sweet grass, and kisses Malfurion’s lips and throat and eyelids. When Malfurion reaches for him to bear Xavius’ weight between his spread thighs, Xavius goes. 

There is power woven between them, Xavius tastes it along with his blood on Malfurion’s mouth and has to chase it with his lips and tongue and teeth. He swallows every noise Malfurion makes, the both of them rutting their cocks together as Malfurion arches beneath him. They’re both too tightly-wound, still sensitive from already having each other once before, and come undone together. 

Lying in the cool night air, tangled in his lover’s arms, Malfurion becomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: haha this will be great! no one will see this coming!
> 
> also me: crying and slapping the keyboard while going massively off-prompt for pseudo-narrative reasons and my own filthy filthy obsession with persephone archetypes


	5. Make One Dream Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from 'You Only Live Twice'

When the stars begin to fade in the pre-dawn light, Xavius rises. Malfurion shifts unhappily when he’s disturbed, but accepts Xavius’ hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet and led down to the shores of the lake. 

The water is as flat and still as glass, the first glimmering rays of the sun turning it into a perfect mirror. Malfurion sees himself for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, and doesn’t recognize himself. His face an echo of his brother’s; a study in elegant bone structure and sharp lines. Every dark scar from the Nightmare’s poison; running across his chest and arms and staining his fingers. The unsettled gleam of  _ knowing _ marking a burning point of light in each of his eyes. 

Xavius fits firmly against Malfurion’s back, sliding arms around him, and Malfurion can see the both of them together for one moment: matched; bloody-handed and almost deserving. Feeling the breath Xavius draws in against his ear while watching Xavius’ lips part before Malfurion is nudged forward into the water and the perfect image is broken. 

The ripples spread from where Malfurion wades into the lake, and in the dawn light they flicker pink and red. With each shift in the water, it looks more and more as though the light is emerging from beneath the lake. Xavius grasps Malfurion’s hand and tangles their fingers together before stepping decisively forward, leading Malfurion along as the water suddenly consumes them both.

Malfurion hangs suspended for a moment, the feel of Xavius’ hand in his own the only sense that he is not alone, as beneath the surface of the lake the portal to the Rift of Aln casts its false radiance on the lake bottom. In one breath he is someplace dark; when he exhales the light is blinding; in the next breath, Malfurion stands among the roots of the Nightmare Tree with Xavius. 

The tree has moved, although Malfurion isn’t entirely sure how he is able to sense it. When he looks around the Nightmare still seems to fade into heavy fog and indistinct shapes; isolating them. In the distance, he can hear the sounds of battle and the almost inaudible strain of voices.

Xavius follows Malfurion’s eyes for a moment before answering the unspoken question, “They seek to rescue you, and will serve well enough to carry out your wish.”

“You’ve directed them here?” Malfurion asks, idly, sensing out the Nightmare’s workings. 

“They entered the Nightmare at my will, and when their task is done they’ll be released from it,” Xavius settles himself on a bed of thick moss among the thick roots, “Are you yet satisfied, dearest?” 

The invitation to join him is clear in Xavius’ voice, and Malfurion goes to him. Time has warped and stretched itself within the Nightmare, but they are both still nude from their night together--whenever that night may have been--and the deep rumble of pleasure Xavius makes as Malfurion slides into his lap is  _ satisfying _ . 

Hidden as they are by the roots of the great tree, there is no concern of being seen or found, and Malfurion feels the first blow struck against Il’gynoth as a visceral rush; bowing his spine and wrenching helpless noises from his throat. Xavius’ hands girdle his hips, the steady heat of his palms against Malfurion’s skin almost like fire, and suddenly Malfurion is starving for him. Desperate to be touched and more desperate to touch in return; he kisses Xavius to devour him. 

From where the Heart of Corruption squats like a toad within the great tree, Malfurion hears it cry out as it is made to bleed, and his body writhes in Xavius’ lap until Xavius pins him in the soft moss and slides slicked fingers between Malfurion’s thighs to prepare him. When the lash of pleasure rides out like the tide Malfurion digs his heels into the moss and rolls his hips down to ride Xavius’ fingers. 

_ YOUR ADVENT WAS FORETOLD IN THE RINGS, the Heart howls as its first shadowy claws come loose from Malfurion’s spirit.  _

Malfurion chokes and Xavius breathes into him with a kiss. He shakes with the force of it, and spreads his thighs and moans when Xavius draws his fingers away to replace them with his cock. The fullness settling into Malfurion’s body like new growth and spreading like heat as Xavius winds an arm under the small of his back and shifts the angle of Malfurion’s hips to coax the last few helpless gasps from him. 

Xavius growls “ _ Mine _ ,” into Malfurion’s ear and Malfurion slurs a nonsense string of  _ yes-please-yours _ as Xavius pulls back and then rolls his hips; his cock slick and heavy and obscene as it presses forward. 

The Heart screams and Malfurion screams with it, each blow that strikes it radiating through him like white heat; catching Malfurion as he writhes between its death throes and Xavius’ wringing pleasure from his body as though it’s his due. Malfurion gives himself to Xavius’ demand, throwing his head back and baring up his throat to howl as Xavius drives them both closer and closer to climax.

When the Heart gives out, Malfurion feels the countless enchantments and the weight of centuries of power bearing down on them snap like dry branches. Every strain of Nightmare bound into it letting go; every wisp of Dream caught by it being released. The power hangs suspended for a moment, and Malfurion can sense whatever heroes have fallen into Xavius’ scheme calling out in alarm as the Nightmare begins to unravel around them. One voice rings out above the rest, and Malfurion feels a sudden twist of wretched longing when he recognizes Tyrande’s voice-- _ calling for him _ \--before the power descends, seeking new vessels, and Malfurion reaches out and grasps everything of the Dream the Heart had trapped and tears at the fabric of the Nightmare around Tyrande and her champions until they spill out into reality. 

Malfurion wavers at the bleeding edge of Dream and Nightmare, but Xavius is with him--glowing with his own repossessed power, the Nightmare haloing him in shadow and blood-red darkness--grasping the edges of the realm and binding them shut, weaving them back together seamlessly. It takes less than a heartbeat, between one shift of their entwined bodies and the next. Malfurion is burning with power and desire and pleasure, the Heart’s death still echoing through him as its final hold on him dissolves. 

Xavius kisses him, urging Malfurion’s thighs to part further and slipping a hand between them to grasp Malfurion’s cock and stroke it in time with his thrusts. After everything, Malfurion goes to pieces quietly; gasping out quiet sounds of pleasure and shuddering through an orgasm so intense he fades in and out of consciousness. Feeling Xavius crushing him against his chest and smothering a growl in Malfurion’s mouth as he finds his own release; floating dreamily in the pleasure of his body and the heady rush of power. 

Malfurion knows before he opens his eyes that Xavius has brought them back to Moonglade, but seeing how changed it is now that their powers are joined is still a shock. The portal to the Rift of Aln still churns relentlessly in the depths of Lake Elune’ara, and great roots bearing the Nightmare’s corruption still spread through the sacred grove, but the deep twilight has eased; the sun caught between setting and dawning; the scent of growing things and the sweet tang of decay fill the air together; the trees are verdant and strong even if the shadows cast by their boughs are red-tinged and deeper than they should be. 

They’ve returned to the small clearing Malfurion privately thinks of as his own. Xavius sits up with his legs crossed to the side almost coquettishly, already attired in the heavy pauldrons and ornate kilt of the Nightmare Lord’s regalia. Malfurion rolls onto his stomach and stretches, sitting up alongside Xavius and admiring the changed Moonglade. In the quiet, the wind chimes still ring through the glade, but they are accompanied by the Nightmare’s susurrous whispering. 

After a long moment, Malfurion says, “It’s my experience that tending the Dream is easier when dressed, and I would guess the same goes for the Nightmare.” 

Xavius snorts inelegantly, but reaches into a shadow and withdraws clothes that are almost identical to the ones Malfurion wore before. He helps Malfurion dress, until finally he unfolds a heavy square of red silk and sets to belting and knotting it intricately around Malfurion’s waist. 

Malfurion lets one of the hanging drapes of silk slide through his fingers, and looks at Xavius questioningly; letting Xavius take each of his hands and press kisses to the palms, and knuckles, and the tips of his fingers. 

“My color suits you.”

**Author's Note:**

> haha im going to hell for this probably but w/e 
> 
> im in the darkfic place where the darkfic comes from, mining it up and bringing the finest darkfic to the ficmarket


End file.
